


Designated Survivor

by assvictoriam



Series: designated survivor [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anathema Device - Acting President (we stan a queen), Anathema and Aziraphale are NOT together, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale needs therapy, Blood, Coma, Crowley's supposed to be the us president, Dreams and Nightmares, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, High Crowley, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of a songfic?, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Seizures, Short Chapters, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), almost like that gay guy in avengers endgame hur hur, background hastur x ligur, but not on drugs! on hospital medication, comatose crowley, excessive use of commas, just one so far tho, like so background that its mentioned Exactly Once and will never be talked about again, physiotherapy, technically, they're just besties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-07-10 16:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19909057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assvictoriam/pseuds/assvictoriam
Summary: It was Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley was lying on the cold, hard ground. Aziraphale's arms were tiring, but the pale hands, soaked with blood, proved that all he was doing was not in vain.It was all he could do to scream Crowley's name, and watch in horror as he was tugged away, people swathed in blue dividing Aziraphale from Crowley like Moses parting the sea.--In which Crowley was supposed to become the president of the United States, but an assassination attempt left him comatose, and Aziraphale powerless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big tw for blood oops

It wasn’t Crowley’s decision to run for office, in the end. It had been all Aziraphale; his best friend, his partner in crime. _He’d_ planted the seed in their junior year of college, _he’d_ gotten them the internship at the White House, _he’d_ hired Crowley as his advisor. And now…  
Now, it was Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley was lying on the cold, hard ground, the atmosphere a ringing, deafening silence surrounding the bubble created by Crowley’s weak, gasping breaths.  
Aziraphale’s arms were tiring, his wrists shaking, but the pale hands, soaked with red, proved that all he was doing was not in vain. Every time Aziraphale shifted, thick, deep red blood oozed from the hole in the other man’s chest. Crowley’s hands were a flurry of movement, swiping the hard floor, combing the formal suit he wore, grazing Aziraphale’s face. A rock settled in his chest as he stared into Crowley’s orange eyes. His pupils were fading, the sharp orange iris becoming a deep yellow. Crowley’s soft, strawberry-smelling hands wrapped around his, tugging them away from the hole.

“Please…” Crowley choked, a small dot of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth, “’sssira, it hurts…” Crowley’s soft words popped the bubble of silence, unleashing a world of sound. It hit him like a train; the screams, the sirens. It was too much.  
Pushing on Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale leant closer to him, pressing a kiss to his nose.  
Before he could pull away, strong hands wrapped around his chest. They tore at him, loud noises erupting in his ears. He couldn’t make out the words. It was all he could do to scream Crowley’s name, and watch in horror as he was tugged away, people swathed in blue dividing Aziraphale from Crowley like Moses parting the sea.

ꟷ

That was a week ago. Crowley’s vice president, a kind-eyed woman named Anathema Device, was acting president. The first female president of the United States, and Aziraphale couldn’t care less. He was confined to a room.  
Realistically, he wasn’t confined to _a_ room- he was confined to five rooms, but he was unable to leave the house because the Secret Service had governed that he was at risk of murder because it should have been him it should have been him it should have been _-,_

Anathema said it doesn’t matter who it “should have been,” Aziraphale tries to reason with himself. Because, sure, Crowley had stepped infront of Aziraphale only moments before the bullet met his chest. And, of course, Aziraphale was meant to give a short speech before Crowley. Not to mention that it was Crowley’s choice to ‘ _spice up_ ,’ (Crowley’s words, not Aziraphale’s,) the swearing-in ceremony. But that doesn’t mean that Aziraphale should “beat himself up” about this. Anathema _had_ told him that the Secret Service were looking for the culprit. A surprisingly well-equipped man called Shadwell had even been sent by the FBI to aid investigations. The American government was perfectly equipped to deal with this scenario. The problem was, Aziraphale wasn’t.  
Aziraphale had, in all meanings, lost his best friend. They had been friends since the beginning; their parents were best friends, so they had grown up together. Same preschool, primary school, high school… Even the same College. Then, when they were both working in the White House, Aziraphale had drunkenly persuaded Crowley into running for president. And now, their friendship was coming to an end. The stage curtains were closing, severing the two men for good.  
Well, that’s a bit dramatic, even for Aziraphale. In truth, the man was in a medically-induced coma; five long days of surgeries removed the bullet, bullet fragments, and repaired severed arteries, but doctors quickly decided that the pain was too much and put him under. Crowley had no next-of-kin- his parent, a formerly kind-hearted person called Beelzebub, had grown cold right before he left for College, and soon after they dropped off the face of the earth. The doctors hadn’t even needed a signature, just happily ticked a box before pumping Crowley with enough sedatives and painkillers to kill a small child, then called it a day.

Assholes.

Speaking about assholes, Aziraphale was snapped from his reverie by a soothing, but annoying, voice.  
“-phale? Were you even listening to me?” Aziraphale glanced up, meeting eyes with the other-worldly Anathema Device, who’d taken a place at the dining table Aziraphale had abducted over the week.

“Sorry, dear,” Aziraphale said, “must’ve been drifting.”

Anathema studied him over her glasses, eyebrow cocked in a fashion only suited to the self-proclaimed witch. “Sure. As I was saying, Crowley seems to be getting better.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath, hands that were previously shaking stilled under the table, “Really? Are you- are you sure?”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t lie to you. Adam told me.”

“Adam…?”

“Young. You know, house speaker? The guy who’s always talking to the press?” When Aziraphale nodded, Anathema continued. “He got word from Crowley’s nurse. They said his heart rate’s beginning to stabilise, so they’ll be able to get him out sooner rather than later.”

“That’s… That’s good. I’m glad,” Aziraphale said, eyes darting around the sparsely-decorated room, “When can I see him?”

She shot him a sad smile, “Not until they catch the guy. That’s why you’re on house arrest. We can’t afford _both_ the president _and_ chief of staff in hospital. You won’t see Crowley _or_ step foot in the White House until the guy’s found and convicted,” she said, not unkindly.  
Aziraphale felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He felt the pressure of unshed tears pool in his eyes, turning Anathema into a blurry silhouette. Realistically, he’d known that he couldn’t leave protective services until they’d found his would-be attacker, but emotionally? He’s loved Crowley since he was twelve years old. They were _best_ friends. There hadn’t been a day when they’d been separated; Crowley even joined Aziraphale’s family on vacations.

“How long… How long will that be?” His eyes trailed downwards, fixing on the dark oak table. His hands found purchase on the side closest to him, nails digging into the hard wood.

His hands were quickly covered by olive ones, “I have no idea, Aziraphale. I’m _so_ sorry.”  
They stayed like this, Anathema rubbing circles on Aziraphale’s knuckles, his tears carving train-tracks upon his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thanks for reading!!  
> I'm super obsessed with Coma/Medical Problems fics, and couldn't really find any in Good Omens, so ?? my hand slipped  
> Chapters might be slow bc i'm in my final yr of hs and hoo boy, but i'll do my best to actually finish this fic   
> feel free to give constructive criticism! this fic is half to improve my writing and half bc coma fics are really Angsty <3  
> Thanks for reading!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale receives some Good News™

The future came and went in the mildly discouraging way that futures do. One day turned to three, and before Aziraphale knew it, four weeks had passed.  
Four weeks with _nothing_. No news, no work, and, most importantly, no _Crowley._ The realisation occurred half-way through week two, when Aziraphale had been watching _The_ _Gilmore Girls_ , trying desperately to keep the illusion of a warm body tucked in his side. When a mildly funny joke was said, Aziraphale turned to the blanket he’d bunched at his side, expecting to see a shock of red hair bouncing through an unnecessarily loud laugh. Instead, the room was filled with silence. A slightly hysterical, bubbly noise escaped from Aziraphale, desperately trying to fill that silence, but the poor excuse for a laugh did nothing but extend the emptiness. Nothing could replace Crowley’s liveliness. Not even the blanket could be a substitute for Crowley’s endless legs and radiant heat.

A hole, identical to the one shot through Crowley, ripped its way through Aziraphale’s heart.  
“My dear boy,” he had whispered into the void, “What have I done?”

ꟷ

Week four brought wilting flowers and wilting hope. Monday had caused a panic attack when a quiet-voiced White House employee had reported that Crowley’d had a seizure. Tuesday saw endless tears as Aziraphale realised how little _work_ he’d done for the past three weeks. Wednesday and Thursday left four books he’d gotten lost in, only resurfacing to tell Crowley’s ghost what was happening in the plot. Finally, Friday found productivity. Aziraphale had ordered (begged) a short White House employee to bring Crowley’s beautiful garden to the safehouse. After two long days of pleading, the sparse room was filled with flowers; roses, and daisies, and succulents, and fruit trees, Crowley’s favoured tomato plant and the small cactus he kept in the bathroom. The safehouse quickly became the garden of Eden. The only thing missing was the snake, because Anathema had quickly become the platonic Eve to his Adam.

“Do you even _know_ how to care for a plant?” She asked, leaning into his space.

Aziraphale shrank as far back as the plush seat would let him, feet hitting the oak coffee-table. A beautiful, flourishing bonsai tree sat in the middle of it, books framing it. “Of course, I do. It can’t be that difficult, they just need water.”

Anathema nodded encouragingly. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if she was indulging him, or just being patient. “They need fertiliser, Aziraphale,” she said softly, “and sunlight. Didn’t he show you?”

Aziraphale sighed. They’d created an unspoken arrangement: Anathema wasn’t to mention Crowley’s name, and Aziraphale wouldn’t ask about the case. “Have you watched the news, recently?” She asked, taking her teacup from the coffee table.

Aziraphale grasped the conversation change easily, “No. Why?”

“We’ve found a suspect. He’s in questioning now.”

“Who?”

“His name is Ligur Empyrean.” Aziraphale nodded, trying to act as if he understood where the conversation was going. “He’s been seen with Gabriel Erebus. They were both at the ceremony.”  
Gabriel Erebus. That’s a name he recognised; he was well-known for his devilish charm, violet eyes, and war-hungry goals. He’d been a previous president but was impeached after trying to declare war on England without cause. Most importantly, he _hated_ Aziraphale and Crowley equally. Aziraphale relayed the latter to Anathema, who nodded along.

“We know he was working with Erebus, but he hasn’t given us much information. We can just hope that Ligur is responsible.”

Aziraphale studied his hands for a long while. He hadn’t gotten a manicure since the ceremony, and the pale pink polish was chipping ruthlessly. He played with a lifting speck of polish. “And if he isn’t?”

Anathema smiled. A solemn thing that didn’t belong on her face. She seemed tired, worn down. Her previously shiny hair was pulled into a hasty bun, the shadows of rubbed-away mascara haunting her eyebags. “If he isn’t found,” she started, before separating his hands. “ _If he isn’t found,_ we’ll keep looking. You’ll be back in the Oval Office before you know it.”

“Thanks, Anathema.” An equally sad smile etched itself upon his face. “How’s presidency?”

ꟷ

He was woken by an incessant ringing the next day. It cut through his dreamless sleep like a knife, and he scrambles blindly to turn off the alarm. After weakly slapping his phone, he slowly realised that it wasn’t an alarm.  
It was a ringtone.  
He tore his eyes open, glaring at the sunshine streaming through his open window. He flings the duvet from his bed, before gripping his phone in shaking hands.  
_Five Missed Calls,_ his phone cheerfully reported. He presses on the notification, screen replaced by the classic iPhone phone screen.  
“Aziraphale, it’s Newt.” A kind voice declares before he could speak into the receiver.

“Newt…?”

“Pulsifer. I’m your bodyguard, I guess. I dunno. Shadwell was supposed to be, but-,”

“Waddy’want.”

“Ligur’s confessed. I’m outside. Get dressed, we gotta go to the White House.”

Aziraphale had never gotten out of bed faster. He practically leaps out, foregoing the usual sweatpants and sweatshirt that he’d called home, selecting his best outfit- A three-piece suit-jacket thing he loved. (He ignores the whisper of _Crowley loves this outfit, he chose it after all, he bought it._ ) Dismissing his usual breakfast, he practically sprints out of the house, ending in a mess inside a black-tinted car.

“Mister Fell, Sir, we’ll be going to the White House. E-T-A nine minutes,” a stout, brown-haired boy announces. If Aziraphale was paying attention, he might have recognised him as Newton Pulsifer.

ꟷ

The first time Crowley had entered the White House was with Aziraphale. Not counting the summer internships, Aziraphale had been working as Chief of Staff for three weeks and needed an advisor. Of course, the job interviews were fair; only three people signed up, including Crowley, and the others just didn’t have the experience. When Crowley began working at the White House, a never-before seen liveliness enveloped the building.  
Crowley was sassy, down-to-earth, to the point. But he made an effort to talk to everyone, create inside jokes with the other senior staff, remind Aziraphale to leave his office every once in a while.  
Needless to say, despite the every-day busyness, the White House was completely different without him. As Aziraphale sat in his cozy office, waiting for a lesser employee to enter, he desperately grasped for any distraction.

“Mister Fell? Can I come in?” After Aziraphale accepted, a small, brown-haired woman entered the room. He recognised her immediately; Pepper Moonchild, one of Adam Young’s good friends.  
“Okay, Aziraphale, Anathema says you can come back to work, but because she thought you’d want to be with Crowley, you could do that instead.”

If there was one thing Aziraphale liked about the younger generation, it was their ability to be to-the-point. However, at the mention of Crowley, a flicker of hope was sparked. “You mean-,”

“Yes.” The woman said, clearly trying not to roll her eyes, “You can put in your vacation days and hang out with Crowley.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered, his hands shaking. He straightened in his chair, feeling a blush envelope his face, “Oh, thank-, thank you. Is Ana… Anathema free?”

Pepper face erupted in a ruthless grin. “She is. But you’ll have to be quick.”

Pepper had hardly left before Aziraphale was stalking the walls, a new-found purpose within his stride. He barely noticed an employee open the Oval Office door for him. “Anathema, I can’t tell you-,”

The woman in question was sitting in the centre of the room, long hair down, glasses perched at the end of her nose. She looked exhausted, but happy. “It’s fine, it wasn’t my doing. Ligur’s awaiting sentencing, but he’s no threat to us right now, and if you’ll let Newt stay with you, you can see Crowley.”  
Aziraphale clenched his hands, feeling as though God had finally answered his prayers. A heavy weight fell from his shoulders as he stalked over to her, pulling her into a tight-armed hug. 

Senses overwhelmed by her incense-smelling perfume, he pulled away after a few moments. “Thank you, Anathema. Really. Thank you.”

She shot him a tight-lipped smile, before calling Newt Pulsifer into the room. “Thank me when Crowley’s back in office.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took some googling, but bc we don't have any last names for the angels/demons, I had to find some. So, Empyrean is "the place in the highest heaven, which was supposed to be occupied by the element of fire" (in ancient cosmologies,) and in Greek mythology, Erebus is "a primordial deity, representing the personification of darkness." I'll let y'all figure out the connection;)  
> Also, medically induced comas usually only last a few days-two weeks, but bc this is fic and Crowley's a drama queen, this coma very clearly does Not Last Two Weeks At The Most.  
> Thank you all so much for reading!! It honestly means so much to me! The reaction to the first chapter was astounding and I just had to get this chapter out asap!:"))  
> Feel free to give constructive criticism or comment ab anything!! I'd love to know what you guys think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale sees Crowley, and a dialogue-heavy doctor gives Aziraphale *~information~*

At 11:48am, an Aziraphale-shaped hurricane tore through a hospital, leaving terrified staff in its wake. It barely stopped as a Newt-shaped rock checked every passing room and corridor, before settling infront of room 210.   
A hesitant voice was the only thing that could settle the storm.

“Mister Fell, the room’s been cleared. Are you sure you-,”

“Of course,” Aziraphale whispered, tension and fear radiating through the empty corridor. With a nod, Newt opened the wooden door. Aziraphale brushed past him, eyes watching his feet.   
The room was, in a word, pathetic.   
Sunlight streamed through a window, its rays broken by a closed, but unshuttered, blind. A leather chair in the corner of the room cradled a luxurious rubber plant; the only plant not stolen by Aziraphale’s shaking hands. The only sound in the room was the faint _‘beep, beep, beep_ ’ of Crowley’s heart monitor and the oppressive groan of his ventilator. Aziraphale felt his lungs tighten in solidarity, his joints lock uncomfortably.

The last time Crowley’d been in hospital was at age twelve. Aziraphale could remember all the details; the way the room had smelt like musk, and the way the nurse had given Aziraphale a smiley-face sticker while a doctor sawed a tattooed cast off Crowley’s right arm. They’d gone to get icecream afterwards.

He stands at the foot of the bed for a long minute, matching his breathing to the heart monitor’s steady chirp. There wasn’t much for Aziraphale to do here; the hospital dramas always portray the best friend as hysterical and angsty. They’d lie in the hospital bed, crying into the patients’ clothes. Someone would always tear the friend away, and the patient would have a seizure or something just as dramatic. Aziraphale was sure that he wasn’t like this. Crowley wouldn’t want him to act melodramatic or sit at his grave and weep. Crowley would want Aziraphale to continue his life; do some work, or read to him. Something _normal_. Unclenching his hands, Aziraphale let his gaze fall on Crowley.

Crowley didn’t look like Crowley.

He was pale, sickly pale. He could see the veins in his arms, a dark blue contrast to the almost translucent skin. He was skinnier than usual, too. Aziraphale could easily make out the bones in his fingers, his wrists, his knees and his toes. A halo of long, red hair framed a face that was so easily recognisable but wasn’t _Crowley_. Two pieces of scotch tape held his eyelids closed, erasing the beautiful golden eyes that Aziraphale had grown to love. A tube ran from his mouth to a wheezing ventilator. His face lacked the endless expressions that always painted his face; his eyebrows were still, mouth pushed closed. The figure had Crowley’s features, but it lacked his personality. Crowley wasn’t _right_.   
Aziraphale felt something in his heart shift. Crowley was a beautiful thing. He walked with a slight swagger, wore clothes too tight for their own good. He had a heart of gold, and was more cryptid than human. He was endlessly charismatic, eternally personalised.   
The thing lying before him was not beautiful. It was tragic.

Before he knew it, Aziraphale was standing at the side of Crowley’s bed. He felt himself fall into an uncomfortable seat. He watches as his fingers curl around Crowley’s limp hand, unbidden and unwanted. He doesn’t defy himself, and lets himself stroke Crowley’s knuckle. Crowley’s skin was cold under his touch, so abnormally cold. Crowley normally ran hot, hot, _hot_ , and this… Thing… was colder than death. He doesn’t pull away.

Medical dramas always portray the patients’ family and friends as hopeless without the patient. And while this is true for Aziraphale, he couldn’t understand why the friends always _talked_ to the patient. Crowley had no way of hearing him. He was chock-full of drugs. Aziraphale, hyper-aware of Newt’s presence, suddenly felt an overpowering need to ask questions. Who did this? How long will he be like this? What’ll happen next?   
“Newt?” His gaze didn’t leave Crowley’s face.

“Yes, mister Fell?”

“Where is,” Aziraphale started. Crowley didn’t flinch when he began speaking, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “Where’s his doctor?”

“Crowley’s doctor is down the hall. Do you want me to get him?”

Aziraphale shook his head, “Do you know what room?”

ꟷ

“Secretary Fell, it-,”

“Pardon, I’m not a secretary. I’m chief of staff,” An angry spear burrowed itself through Aziraphale’s heart, “I want to know what’s wrong with Crowley.”

Crowley’s doctor -a short man by the name of Tom Kirkman _,_ \- gestured to the seat opposite himself. Aziraphale, slightly awkwardly, left the doorway and travelled to the plush, cream-coloured chair. The doctor cleared his throat, before opening something on his laptop. “Anthony Crowley is a peculiar case, might I say. We miscalculated the amounts of sedatives he’d need during his last surgery, and, well-,”

Aziraphale rarely raised his voice. In fact, he’d only done so once or twice in his forty-something years of life. But this was a special occasion.   
“You _what_!?” He all but bellowed, his voice cracking. “How do you make a mistake that _large_!"

Doctor Kirkman didn’t react. He barely blinked. Kirkman just removed his rectangular glasses and scrubbed at them with the corner of his dress shirt’s sleeve. The mere action prompted Aziraphale to dig his nails into the palms of his hands, grapple for something to cool his temper. “It’s very uncommon, I assure you. We hadn’t realised he was transgender- it just wasn’t on his medical files, - and we hadn’t realised until we were operating.” Kirkman slid his glasses onto his face, “Basically, in fear of sounding uneducated, we hadn’t accounted for the physical changes he’d gone through and didn’t account for them. We fixed this as soon as we realised, but the damage had been done, and he woke during the operation.”

“He _woke up_?” Aziraphale felt something crack inside him, “What kind of doctor _are_ you?”

“Clearly, not the most educated.” Kirkman shared a private chuckle with himself, before continuing, “If it soothes you, he was completely numb. Just stared at us, and asked about you. He told us that you’d-,” he cleared his throat, then adopted a posh, drawling accent. “ _be very upset because he hadn’t apologised for the fight earlier, and would Aziraphale be allowed in this room because he doesn’t let people take his blood, please and thanks._ We upped the sedatives and he fell asleep pretty quickly after that.”

Aziraphale sighed, running a hand down his face. “That doesn’t explain why Crowley’s in a coma.”

“Of course. He’s a very curious case, as I’m sure you’ll soon realise. The bullet had broken into several bits, so we operated several times. He woke up after each surgery and was in massive amounts of pain each time. Morphine wasn’t working. He kept passing out, and suffered a minor seizure at one point as well. The only thing we could do to stop him from getting worse was to put him in an induced coma. I’m so sorry it had to end like this.”

Aziraphale nodded, his anger seeping out as quickly as it’d arrived. “When will he wake up?”

Doctor Kirkman nodded, before turning to his computer. He typed for a long moment, Aziraphale fighting the urge to see what was being written, and turned back to Aziraphale. Kirkman removed his glasses, leaving them on the desk. “We’re going to start weaning him off the drugs as soon as his body shows significant signs of healing. The bullet entered through his collarbone and shattered as it passed through. It was lodged just behind the bone. The muscles it tore won’t heal until he’s awake and starting PT, but once the arteries are healed, we’ll try to wake him up.”

“When’ll this be?”

“It’s been four weeks since the shooting. I assume it’ll be another two weeks or so, but we could wean him off the medications some time this week and let him wake up on his own.”

“We can do that?”

“It’s not common, but we sometimes do that for older patients and those with similar injuries. It lowers the likelihood of mental illness and disability. This doesn’t guarantee that he will wake up soon, though. He’ll wake when he’s ready.”   
After talking about ways to interact with Crowley while he’s comatose, Aziraphale left in tears. Newt escorted him to Crowley’s hospital room. Aziraphale slumped in the chair, hands gripping Crowley’s, tears soaking the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just want to make sure y'all are aware, i'm a cis woman but gay, and therefore i'm not trans. if anything about trans!crowley is written to be offensive, uneducated, etc., please feel free to comment! i'm 100% happy to remove or edit anything that seems off
> 
> also!! i'm using this fic to Practice my writing, especially dialogue and the perspectives (first person, second person, etc.) bc of this, if the dialogue is especially shitty, feel free to tell me! i'm having a Lot of trouble with my perspectives, so if anyone has any tips or wants to point out any weird change in perspectives/participles, please feel free to lmk!
> 
> if u watch designated survivor on Netflix, you might've noticed a cameo. there'll be more bc the gomens characters have Important Parts and the title comes from that show so ?? oops
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's reading this, especially anyone who takes the time to give me a kudos or write a comment! I really appreciate it!  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a nightmare, him and a doctor have a heart-to-heart, and Aziraphale has a conversation with Crowley.  
> Oh, and Aziraphale deals with another "night"mare ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for slight body horror in the first paragraph, basically Aziraphale has a nightmare about Crowley  
> not sure if the end paragraph needs a tw but ?? there's a medical Problem so if yall think a tw is necessary Please tell me!!  
> this is completely unedited btw

Aziraphale and Crowley sat, hand-in-hand, on the soggy wooden bench inside a gazebo just out of town. Crowley stares at his phone, his lips pinched in what Aziraphale knew to be concern. Aziraphale watches Crowley tap a message into his phone through a rose-coloured lens. Despite the cold wind, Aziraphale has never felt warmer.

“I can feel you watching me, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, eyes not leaving his phone.  
Aziraphale doesn’t respond, but looks at their interlocked hand instead. Crowley’s nails were painted black, while Aziraphale had his perfect French-tipped manicure as always.

“Is there something on my face?” At this, Aziraphale glances back at Crowley. Gold eyes and blue eyes meet.

“No. No, my dear boy. I just…” Aziraphale stops. Crowley looks away, distracted by his vibrating phone. He shoots off another message, before looking back at Aziraphale. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s hands reach into his pocket, pulling out his sunglasses. He slides them onto his face, before licking his lips. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? The ceremony’s tomorrow, and you-,”

“I said I’m fine, Aziraphale.”

He can tell he’s overstepped. Crowley pronounces his name differently- Azira- _fail_. He’s never done that before. Aziraphale takes a deep breath.  
“My dear, has Beelzebub messaged you? They must’ve heard the good news.”  
Crowley glances away. Aziraphale looks around himself. The wind has begun to pick up, leaves swirling around. Aziraphale feels numb.  
When he looks back at Crowley, Crowley’s facing straight at him. His glasses are off, and his eyes are pitch black. Red tears pool in them, until they fill up the sockets and his eyes are full of red and it’s too much they begin falling down his face but they’re not _red_ because the acidic smell of blood is filling Aziraphale’s nostrils it’s too much it’s too much it’s too-  
Aziraphale screws his eyes shut. When he opens them again, Crowley’s face is normal. He leans in, begins wrapping arms around the man who’d been crying _blood_. He knows he should be feeling _something_ , anything. No emotions are bubbling to the surface, no racing heart or sweaty hands. The only thing he can think to do is hug Crowley.

After three long seconds, he feels Crowley’s hands dig into his back. He shoots away, arms unwrapping. He stares into an emotionless Crowley.  
Crowley opens his mouth, and his teeth are gone. Aziraphale can’t react as Crowley’s voice escapes the black, black, _black_ ness of his gaping maw.

“You go too fast for me, Aziraphale.”

And Aziraphale is screaming, screaming, _screaming_.

ꟷ

Aziraphale wakes with a start, his chest heaving and heart pounding. His surroundings are blurry, just a mass of faint light, and his heart doesn’t rest as his mind scrambles to get its memories in order. His hands are curled tightly around a cold, clammy thing and it takes him a moment to realise where he is. His eyes slowly focus, a new wetness appearing upon his cheeks. A pit drops in his stomach as he realises he’s _crying_. Again. Because of a _nightmare_. God, how childish is he?

He desperately waves away the oncoming tsunami of self-deprecating thoughts as he focuses on a still mass infront of him.  
Crowley.  
He half expected Crowley to be awake, lithe fingers scrolling through his phone and cocky grin etched into his face. He would turn to Aziraphale, and with wide eyes, say _“You alright, Aziraphale?”_ And Aziraphale would pull Crowley into a hug, (Crowley never initiated- _initiates_ contact,) and recount his dream. Crowley would chuckle and tell him “ _Everything’ll be alright."  
_But he’s not. Because he’s lying not thirty centimetres away from him, a tube forced down his throat. Aziraphale huffs, pulling his hands from Crowley’s, and stands. His knees and back crack, and with one long look at Crowley, he rushes from the room.

ꟷ

Aziraphale returns after he’d showered. Newt had escorted him back to the safehouse- a small four-room house in an undisclosable location- and had watched with concerned eyes as Aziraphale flitted around the house. He collected a few things, most importantly a book and his phone, before all but racing back to the hospital room. He returns as a doctor sits on the bedside chair, writing something on a clipboard.

“Oh, are you his husband?” The doctor, a short, pale-skinned woman, asks. Aziraphale shifts his position in the doorway, letting her question rush over him. _Husband._ Where’d she get that idea from? Crowley had made it _very_ clear that they were nothing but friends an odd ten years ago.

“No. No, we’re just friends.” Aziraphale responds, his voice shaky, “Well, best friends, I’d say. Kirkman said that Crowley mentioned me in-,” _surgery_. He can’t bring the words forward, his mouth slamming shut with a _clack_.

“Oh, you must be Aziraphale. Of course. Well, I’m just giving him some PT so if you want to come back later…?” The doctor stands, her shoulders squaring. She tilts her head back, just slightly, and in any other situation Aziraphale would find himself laughing. If Crowley were here, Aziraphale would find himself laughing. But Crowley’s fucking _comatose_ , and Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to care that this woman’s trying to intimidate him. All he wants is to not ‘ _come back later_ ,’ this is Crowley they’re talking about!

“How…” Aziraphale doesn’t want to finish the sentence. After a long moment, he clears his throat. “Can I stay here?”

The doctor’s posture softens, and she smiles knowingly. “Of course.”

Aziraphale watches as the doctor moves Crowley’s joints around, refills several IV bags, and takes many notes on her clipboard. While she does this, he finds himself catching a lilting song she hums under her breath. It sounds old, almost biblical, and Aziraphale recognises the tune but can’t find the lyrics. When he asks, an odd twenty minutes after he’d sat down, the girl smiles to herself.

She readjusts Crowley’s limp body, before glancing at him. “I like to talk to my patients. Especially the ones who don’t get many visitors.” She looks down at Crowley, “You’re his third visitor. Some people aren’t quite lucky. One of my patients hasn’t had a single visitor. We’re going to be taking her off life-support tomorrow, but she’s got no family to be called. Crowley’s lucky.”

A rush of guilt hits him like a train, “who else has visited Crowley?”

“President Device, and Crowley’s parent. Device came right after Crowley was put under, and his parent came when we called, but didn’t stay for long.”

Aziraphale nodded, “Beelzebub and Crowley aren’t close anymore. He hasn’t seen them since College.”

“If it means anything to you, I voted for Crowley. I like his policies, and he seems to actually care about us. If he decides to be president once he’s awake, I can’t wait for him to enact Medicare.”

“Me, too.”

The doctor readjusts Crowley’s feeding bag and turns to Aziraphale. “It was nice talking to you. Make sure you talk to Crowley. When he’s off the drugs, it’ll help him wake up.”  
Aziraphale nods, and watches as she leaves the room.

ꟷ

An hour of silence later, Aziraphale finds himself recounting the doctor’s words. _Talk to Crowley. Beelzebub didn’t stay for long. You’re his third visitor._

“So,” his voice is raw from disuse, but he continues anyway. “ _So_ , you’ve only had three visitors. I’d expect you to have more, seeing that you’re the president now.”

Aziraphale feels a rush of embarrassment, having one-sided conversations with a room. “You’d think that journalists would be hounding the place. Or at least your parent.” Aziraphale sighs, staring at Crowley’s face. He waits for Crowley to respond, his eyebrows to rise, or his mouth to do that obnoxious _O_ shape he does when he’s humouring Aziraphale. Crowley does none of these. He just lays in that bed, chest rising and falling every moment.

“Anyway. I had…” Aziraphale feels stupid, bringing up this topic. But Crowley needs to know, even if he can’t react. “I had a nightmare last night. It was a rather shoddy one, too. We were… Well, we were talking, then I mentioned Beelzebub, and you just… You sort of… Started crying. But not really crying _tears_ , more like crying blood. It was rather strange. But I knew I was dreaming, so I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, you were fine. And I’m not quite sure what happened next, but I guess I said something because you told me that I go too fast for you, and like, what does that even mean? That makes no sense, Crowley. Absolutely _none_. But then I woke up.”

Aziraphale feels absolutely _stupid_ after telling Crowley all this. He tells this to Crowley, too, and follows it up with a huff. “So, Crowley, I was going through Twitter today, and…”

It doesn’t matter that Aziraphale hadn’t _actually_ gone through Twitter today. Or that he hadn’t the day before. In fact, he hasn’t gone through Twitter in at least two weeks. But Aziraphale needed a way to keep the conversation alive, even if Crowley isn’t.

ꟷ

The next day, Aziraphale found himself having a long debate with himself about the ethics of eating meat. He’d given Crowley the _‘against_ ’ perspective, and currently, Crowley was winning.  
Well, Crowley would be winning if the bugger could _wake up_. But of course, Crowley’s a selfish asshole, and his charisma is so strong that he’s winning an argument he’s not even partaking in.

“…And while there _are_ downsides to intensive farming, it stops the animals from dying too often, which is a good thing because it prevents deaths… And, well, ah… We get more food, which is important because we need food. Yes.” Aziraphale nods to himself, feeling incredibly dumb expecting Crowley to answer.

When nothing happens, Aziraphale slumps in his chair. “Okay, dear boy, I guess you win. Whatever, I don’t even like-,” Aziraphale stops. The heart-rate monitor, which had been beeping at a steady pace for the past while, beeped unexpectedly. His heart rate, Aziraphale assumed, had gotten faster? Or just one beat was faster?

Aziraphale, grinning ear-to-ear, shifted so his back was ram-rod straight again. He grips Crowley’s hand, and rubs the knuckle with his thumb. “I think I should address the elephant in the room, so to speak.” He doesn’t want to do this. The fight they had the day before the swearing-in-ceremony was harsh and brutal, but something told him that this was important. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Crowley. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.” That was a lie, but Crowley didn’t know that. He knew exactly what the fight had started as; Crowley had said that he didn’t actually want to be president anymore, and Aziraphale went off at him. Crowley had started listing places they could go, and Aziraphale had just… Cracked.

“I guess I was stressed, or something, but I shouldn’t have yelled. And I didn’t mean to call you a bad person, because you’re not. You’re good. We’re not on _opposite sides_ , and I don’t even know where I got that from. You’re not… you’re not demo… demonic. I like you a lot. You’re my best friend. I’m so sorry, Crowley. I’m so, so, so sorry. When you wake up we’ll go on a holiday. Anywhere you want. I’ll let you take me to that galaxy place you mentioned, Alphra… Alpha? Alpha Century. Centurai. Alpha Centauri? We’ll buy a spaceship and go there. Probably die in space, but whatever. Crowley, you’re a good person. You’re a great person. You really are a nice-,”

At this, Crowley’s heart rate monitor started beeping faster. Before he could react, Crowley’s eyes shot open, his chest jerking wildly.  
_“Crowley?_ ” Aziraphale gasped, grinning. Was Crowley finally awake? Maybe he’d been taken off the drugs early! Aziraphale tightened the grip he had on Crowley’s cold hand.  
The hand he held slid from his grasp. Aziraphale watched in horror as Crowley began to jerk and flail, limbs flying like he’d been possessed. A stone dropped in Aziraphale’s stomach.  
Something was wrong.  
Something was very, very wrong.

“Somebody, help!” He screeched, voice barely audible over the heart rate’s screaming. Crowley’s body flailed about, his chest hitting the bed rhythmically. His head thrashed on the pillow beneath him.  
Doctors and nurses sped into the room, pulling and pushing at Crowley’s body. Distantly, Aziraphale could feel himself yelling and crying. There was a pressure in the palms of his hands. Someone turned to him, their mouth moving but words not coming out. They waved at him, and someone else tore him from the room. They slammed the door behind him.  
Hot tears ran down his face. His chest heaving, he collapsed outside the closed door. There was nothing left to do but cry, and Aziraphale found himself praying to a long-abandoned God.  
Oddly, Aziraphale found a name to the song the doctor had been humming yesterday.

 _Hold on just a little while longer. Hold on just a little while longer. Hold on just a little while longer._  
_Everything will be alright._  
_Everything will be alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait lmfao, this past week has been Hectic(tm)  
> also Hold On A Little While Longer is the song mentioned in the end paragraph!! its such a pretty song n it's on youtube if yall wanna listen


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema is a Badass(tm), and Aziraphale's sad(tm)  
> also the writer is from Australia and knows literally Nothing about American politics

Anathema sighed as she takes a swig from a very cold cup of coffee. This day was just getting worse. The past few weeks were… Interesting, if she was being honest. She was the automatic designated survivor if the president was injured or killed, but being VP hadn’t warned her that she’d take that position _immediately_.

If she had been told that Crowley was going to be shot, Anathema knew she wouldn’t have even taken the offer to be vice president. But, such is life.   
Being the first female president came with much anger from the American people, but she had managed to die that down pretty quickly, what-with the gun ban, new disability pensions, and her current work to introduce Medicare. (Not to say those didn’t come around without a fight. She spent many nights in the oval office, debating with senators about human rights.) But this day? This day was probably the worst day she’s had. Ever.

Ligur Empyrean, the man who’d allegedly shot Crowley, was found not guilty. After a long conversation with Whitehouse lawyers, she’d learned that Ligur was now a free man, which led to Anathema almost screaming in anger. Later, she was told that Gabriel Erebus had gone completely missing. Off the grid. Fell from the face of the Earth.   
Gabriel Erebus, the only other _possible_ defendant, was gone.   
What the fuck was Anathema to do?

ꟷ

Anathema’s heels click against the concrete floor of the control room. It was a dreary, concrete-laden room about fourteen levels underground. The walls were covered in screens and computers, small desks lining the halls. At these, uniformed people sat, staring into blue-tinted screens. In the centre of the room sat an excessively large table, at which a broad man stood by the head. As Anathema enters, the man yells a succinct _All rise!_

Anathema waves her hand hastily, watching with an uncomfortable air as tens of people fell into their seats. “What’s going on?”

“President Anathema, ma’am. I’m Secret’ry of the Home Defence, Warlock Dowling.” The man extends a sweaty hand. She grips it, her stomach aching as she’s forced into a too-wet, too-firm handshake. After a long second, her hand drops, and she slides into a seat at the head. “ _Warlock_?”

The man’s face pinches into a grimace as he sits. “Look, my mother was _really_ upset when my father wasn’t there for my birth. She named me out of spite.”

Holding back any questions of _why don’t you change it?_ , Anathema asks him to explain what was happening.

“Well, ma’am, we have some good news.” When she inclines her head, Warlock continues. “Even though the FBI didn’t have enough evidence against Ligur Emp’rean, they _do_ have enough evidence to take Ga’riel E’ebus to court.”

“And how would we do that?” Anathema asks, crossing one leg over the other. She dearly wished for some earl grey tea, or perhaps an iced coffee.

Warlock coughed, “Nation-wide search? We need you to sign off on it, but if we can get all police forces keeping an eye on th-,”

“Let’s do it.”

Warlock shifts in his seat, creases appearing between his eyebrows. “Ma’am, as much as I’d love to conduct a nation-wide search, they’re expensive, an’, an’ time consuming…”

“We have to do something, Dowling. I can’t put the chief of staff, Aziraphale, back on house-arrest. Our,- our president’s in a _coma_ because of Ligur. Let’s just get to work.”

Warlock nods, “As you wish, ma’am.”  
Anathema begins to speak again, when her phone rings an obnoxious cry.

ꟷ

“Aziraphale!” Anathema cries, walking as quickly as she could with high heels. She scans the bleak hospital corridor, looking for the dishevelled but well-dressed man.   
After another right corner, she sees him, curled into a straight-backed seat, Newt Pulsifer sitting a respectable two seats away. Aziraphale, in one word, looks terrible. His head, covered previously in a crown of downy white curls, had grown grey and unkempt, hair clean but still limp and loosely curled. His eyes had deep shadows beneath them, rimmed with red. His body was shaking, and although Anathema could not see his hands, she knew they would be too. His normally pristine, three-piece outfit was creased and wrinkled.   
The sharp smell of sweat filled the air.   
At Anathema’s cry, Aziraphale turned to face her. “What the _fuck_ , Aziraphale.” She groans, taking a seat next to him. The cold metal digs into her back.

Aziraphale lets out a pitiful sob. “He’s-,” He shifts, “he’s in _surgery_!”

A pang of guilt ran through her, “I know, Aziraphale. I know.” She grips his shoulders and pulls him into her. The smell of sweat fades slightly, the faint smell of vanilla and sandalwood cologne overpowering it.

They sit like that, Aziraphale awkwardly leaning into her, for several minutes. Newt catches her eye, sending a confused raised eyebrow at her. (Although, the expression was less a raised eyebrow and more a constipated _hrm?_ Kind of face. The kind you give your best friend when someone does something stupid.) Anathema shrugs back at him. When Aziraphale’s sobs turned to the occasional hiccup, he straightened, patting his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry, dear. This is,” he sniffles, “new to me.”   
She takes his hand, glancing at unkempt nails. She knew he’d been ignoring his weekly manicure, but they were getting far too long for his liking.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but the presidency-,”

“You can’t be everywhere at once, I know. I just wished I hadn’t fought with him, he must _hate_ me, and now he’s going to die thinking that I hate him, too.”

Anathema sighs. She knew about their fight in a gazebo a day before the swearing-in ceremony, but it hadn’t even been that bad. From what Crowley told her, he’d basically just refused to go to London with him.   
“He’s not going to die. I’m pretty sure seizures are a good sign. You _know_ my grandma had a seizure every day, and she lived to be ninety.”

Aziraphale huffs a small laugh, “Yeah. A miracle.” He says, crying out playfully when Anathema digs an elbow into his gut.

“I know you’re feeling shit about Crowley, so what can I do to help?”   
Aziraphale smiled sadly back at her.

ꟷ

“Hey! That tickles!”

“Serves you right for wanting this.”

“But this- _ow,_ is _fun_ , Anathem- _ah_!”

“I think your definition of fun is very different to mine.”

“H- _Ah!_ That _hurts!_ ”

“God, you’re such a top.”

“Um. Why am I here?”

Anathema groans, glaring without heat through her eyelashes at Newt. When she asked Aziraphale what he needed, she certainly wasn’t prepared for a “girls-day” complete with manicures and facials. Anathema and Aziraphale were currently strewn on the floor outside Crowley’s hospital room, Anathema currently pushing Aziraphale’s cuticles back. They had driven to Anathema’s current house, where she forced him into the shower while she searched for her supplies. Once he was done, looking far better than he had before, they drove back to the hospital at Aziraphale’s request, and donned their facial sheet masks.

“You’re here, _Newton Pulsifer_ , because you’re literally secret service. Your job is to protect us.”

Aziraphale squirms as Anathema pushes back another cuticle, and Newt shrugs. “Where’s _your_ detail, madam president?” He asks, half-joking.

“Oh, they’re _around_.” She winks, pushing a final cuticle away, “Okay, Aziraphale, what colour were you wanting?”

“Just a pink, dear.” Smiling, Anathema snatches one of the three bottles of nail polish from beside her, before applying a light pastel-pink to Aziraphale’s thumbnail.

An hour later and all three government officials had freshly-painted nails and soft faces. Anathema leans back in her chair, grinning wickedly at the perfectly painted black nailpolish she now wore. It’d been _ages_ since they last had a girls’ day, and even if Crowley wasn’t present, Newt made for a good nail painter.

Anathema was about to ask about ordering a pizza when a frantic-looking doctor skirted around the corner.

“Mister Aziraphale?” He calls. Aziraphale stumbles to his feet, the previously happy expression replaced with something Anathema’s soul cries to see.

“Yes? Is Crowley-,”

“He’s just out of surgery. We have to talk.”   
Aziraphale’s face crumbles, and the faint light behind his eyes fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was completely unedited lmfao, please feel free to Yell if anything needs to be edited!
> 
> I'm so, so sorry for dropping off the grid for a While. I was in a Bad pain flare, n my final year of high school is Kicking my Ass. Legit, why can't I just be a kangaroo:(   
> Thanks for reading! Comments and Kudos fill my soul, n if yall have any constructive criticism feel free to hmu!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get some debatably good news, n there's some Angst and totally hetero two bros chilling in a hottub Longing™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like I normally write in Complete Silence but three songs kind of Inspired this chapter, so they are:  
> -landfill, by daughter  
> -the night we met, lord huron  
> -saturday sun, vance joy  
> also a playlist i made to help me understand the eng texts we're studying is what i was listening to while writing this. if u wanna listen the link is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0wuix9fc7jqSpAxiybRIp3?si=cHGflDydSRefMhREsvxlQg

“ _We’ve taken Crowley off the medication. We plan for him to wake up within the next few days.”_  
Doctor Kirkman’s words were like the pattering of rain upon a window; faded, barely absorbed. There was nothing left for Aziraphale to do. These days had gone by fast and mercilessly, but Crowley was _getting better_. He knew, deep down, that he had to feel happy. His life-long best friend was going to be awake in less than a week. But an aching numbness had taken over his body, and Aziraphale finds himself, not for the first time in his life, purposeless. He nods along with what the doctor says, agrees to let Crowley live with him once he’s been discharged, and runs into Anathema when he leaves the office.  
She asks what the doctor had said, and he relays it back.

 _"Crowley’s been taken off the medication. He’s fine, the seizure was just because there was too little oxygen in his brain. There’ll be physio. He’s not fit to be president.”_  
Anathema grins the whole time, but that smile falters when he unfeelingly tells her that she’ll have to remain president.  
Aziraphale doesn’t ask why. He finds he doesn’t care.  
Anathema pulls him into a hug, and her perfume greets him like an old friend.

ꟷ

Anathema leaves soon after their short conversation, Newt pulling her in for a hug before she disappears, swaddled in secret-service that Aziraphale and Newt hadn’t noticed before. When they return to Crowley’s room, Newt entering first and surveying the accompanying bathroom, Aziraphale almost cried. Crowley no longer had a tube stuffed down his throat, was no longer connected to hundreds and thousands of wires and IVs and bags and technologies. Aziraphale raced to count and identify everything connected to that tanned body, and noted four things; A heart rate monitor, two IV bags, and a tube disappearing underneath his bed. This corpse no longer resembled Crowley.  
This corpse _was_ Crowley.  
Aziraphale grimaced alongside Newt, because although this was Crowley, it looked like Crowley had just fallen asleep. Like he would wake if either man shook him. Like he’d complain about the lack of tea in the distant area, and reference _Queen_ songs to no end.  
The absence of Crowley’s ventilators’ wheezing tore Aziraphale’s attention from his thoughts, and Aziraphale, for what felt like the first time, brought his gaze to Newt.  
Newton Pulsifer was staring at Crowley’s body, lip confined between teeth. “Do you think he knows?” He asks, eyes remaining on Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes his head non-committedly, “I think he knows.” Aziraphale’s not sure what Crowley’s supposed to know, but assumes it’s that they’re in the room.

“God, it’d be a terrible thing,” He says, waving his hands vaguely at Crowley, “to be shot on your swearing-in day.”

Aziraphale doesn’t agree. “It may be a terrible thing,” he replies, “but what’s worse? To be shot, or to spend your life doing something you hate?”  
He cringes after he finishes. He was desperately aiming to have sounded unnecessarily deep and brooding, but somehow managed to sound like he’s on one of those cringe-compilations Crowley likes. Sounds about right for Aziraphale. Crowley’s the one who broods, Aziraphale just complains. Newt doesn’t answer for a long while, and Aziraphale almost thinks he’s abandoned the strange conversation, when Newt’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“I think…” He says slowly, “I’d want to be shot.”  
He doesn’t elaborate, and Aziraphale’s not sure he wants him to. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to respond, either, so he resigns himself to a nod.

ꟷ

Newt, after a long, awkward while, disappears. Aziraphale’s not sure where he’s gone, but isn’t sure he cares either. What he does know is that it’s the late afternoon. The warm orange glow of a setting sun streams through the room, its rays severed by a low-quality venetian blind. Pinks and yellows and reds bless the room, curling around Crowley’s body.  
It turns his skin a faint orange, and Aziraphale finds himself hypnotised. Crowley looks so… _Small_.  
How on Earth will he get through physiotherapy looking like this? Instead of dwelling, he searches his pockets for a long-forgotten phone. His fingers graze his jacket pocket, eyes tearing themselves from Crowley for but a moment. After a minute, Aziraphale’s fingers wrap around the cold metal of an iPhone 4, and pulls it out.  
He turns the phone on, and after a long five minutes, the screen switches from the apple logo to a screen filled with notifications.  
_Twitter (70+)_  
_Instagram (10)_  
iMessage (30)  
Wattpad (70+) 

He sighs angrily, running a manicured hand through his hair. It gets caught in the knotted curls, and for a second, he drops his phone. With both hands, he searches for the knot, before crudely untangling it. His fingers come away, wrapped in short loose strands, and he brushes them away. Picks up his phone. When he unlocks it, the first app he goes to is Twitter. The message button tells him he has forty new messages, so with his pointer finger, he scrolls through the little boxes. He taps a reply to one message, before closing the app and going to Instagram.  
He’s greeted with a photo, one taken the day of the swearing-in ceremony. His hands shake as he stares. Aziraphale and Crowley are standing in front of two coloured escalators, one a faint emerald green, the other sea-blue. The two are looking at each other, shoulders back, faces blank.  
Aziraphale’s white hair is puffed up, his eyebrows raised. He’s glancing at Crowley with a faint smile, while Crowley looks at him with a forced, sarcastic frown. His hair is quiffed to the sky, and his eyes are hidden behind hideous glasses. They’re wearing matching coats, but where Aziraphale’s is cream, Crowley’s is leather and black. They’re cut off at the waist, but Aziraphale knows they’re holding hands.  
The description reads _‘Meet your new president_ _💕😘👌🎉_ _✨_ _🤞💪🤘’.  
_It’s obnoxious, but the hundreds of likes and comments disagree with how Crowley had cringed when Aziraphale had typed the comment. He huffs a laugh.

“Crowley,” he whispers, “Remember that photoshoot? People _love_ it.”

Crowley doesn’t reply. Aziraphale turns his phone off, before kicking his shoes from his feet.

Aziraphale sighs, the dawning, empty void of nostalgia digging a pit inside his soul. He stares unblinkingly at Crowley’s shrunken body, counting each swell of his chest. The fragile rays of moonlight haunt the room, its silver hands blessing Crowley’s form. His tanned but pale skin glistens in response, skin a faint grey. He couldn’t remember when the sunset had ended, but couldn’t bring himself to care. Biting a chapped lip, Aziraphale pulls himself from his seat, body aching in reply.  
Hesitantly, as if he were committing the original sin, he takes three stumbling steps towards Crowley’s bed. With both shaking hands he ever-so-slowly lowers himself onto the bed, kicking his feet upon the mattress.  
Crowley does not respond, nor flinch, so he continues his ministrations until his whole body runs flush against Crowley’s. A warmth he hadn’t realised had vanished reappeared as he cradled Crowley’s form. Aziraphale tucks his head into the crook of Crowley’s neck, breathing in Crowley’s ever-present scent; he could never place it exactly, but he’d be damned if he didn’t smell faintly like a forest fresh from a storm, of springtime, and the faint hint of sulphur. He couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, so Aziraphale stares towards Crowley’s face. From this distance, he can count every smile-line, every wrinkle, and every sun kissed freckle. God had blessed him so lovingly, had taken his body into Her own hands and moulded it to Her image. Crowley was made by the Gods, and they’d both be damned if this was his end. They’d both be damned if Aziraphale even whispered of loss.  
This moment, the intimacy that could only be shared between lovers, spurred Aziraphale’s memory into that of a similar situation. One in which Aziraphale had been sixteen and ill. Crowley had crawled into bed with him, and sung the boy to sleep.  
Heart racing, Aziraphale took a moment to recall the words, and opens his mouth to sing. ‘ _I had all and then most of you… Some and now none of you.’_ His voice comes out as a ghost, his body unable to break the silence between the two. For a long minute, his eyes map Crowley’s nose, that beautiful hooked shape, and he began again, his voice coming in hushed harmony.

‘ _Take me back to the night we met. I don’-know what I’m sp’osed to do, haunted by the ghost of you.’_ He sighs, a hand unknowingly tracing Crowley’s collarbone. ‘ _Ooh, take me back to the night we met,_ ’ he murmurs into Crowley’s neck.

Distantly, he feels a wetness upon his cheeks, but cannot find the urge to wipe the tears away.  
Aziraphale falls asleep like this, curled into his friends’ body, and dreams of Crowley and the universe. __  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo in question is this one: https://bit.ly/2Ugu8sT
> 
> So this took me a good four hours to write, but oh my god, I've had that final scene written for literally two months hhh  
> Thank you so, so much for reading!! As always, feel free to give constructive critism.  
> Also comments and kudos are super appreciated!! Thank you so much to everyone who's currently subscribed or bookmarked or commented or given kudos, i'm not joking when i say that i literally Cry :")  
> Have an awesome weekend y'all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley dreams

Crowley grins, wide and feral. He’s sitting somewhere on a hard surface he can’t place. Why is he smiling? His brows furrow, but the tight stretch of skin remains. That’s… odd. Workable, but odd. He looks down. A hand is wrapped around a label-less bottle. Or does it have a label? He moves the bottle around, but it’s completely smooth. There’s liquid inside, he can hear the crinkle that liquid makes when moved. He flicks the lid off, before taking a long gulp.  
Something slides down his throat, but it’s flavourless. He closes his eyes. Takes another sip. When he opens them again, a blonde-haired figure is standing in the shadows before him. He waves with three fingers. The figure waves back, a full five-fingered wave. It drops its hand.  
Distantly, Crowley hears the beeping of an alarm clock. It’s steady, rhythmic. The figure moves forward but doesn’t take steps. After a moment, it stands directly in front of him.  
Crowley could count the figures’ eyelashes, if he can figure out where eyelashes are supposed to be. He tries to concentrate, searches for the meaning of eyelashes. He gives up. The figure wraps around him, digging its head into the crook of his neck. Its hair smells of vanilla.  
Crowley sits there, allowing himself to be hugged. When he tries to hug back he can’t move his arms, so he lets them hang at his sides.  
The figure begins humming. It sings a garbled lullaby, and Crowley drifts off to its song.

When Crowley wakes, he’s laying down. There’s something wrapped around him, but he can’t move his body to escape its clutches. He can’t seem to care. There’s a warm pressure by his collarbone, a slight tickle as an infinity symbol is traced over it, again and again and again. It’s impossibly pleasant, and he finds himself trying to lean into the feeling.  
He can’t.  
Strangely, he can’t feel the bubbling of fear at this realisation, just a calm acceptance. As long as the fingers continue their dance, he’ll be fine. He knows he will be.  
As though underwater, he hears a distant beeping. He lets the beeping carry him away.

ꟷ

A sharp pain runs through Aziraphale’s neck, and it takes him a few terrifying seconds to realise he wasn’t sitting up in a chair or lying in a bed. No; there was a warm body beside him, one he was snaked around. Groaning, Aziraphale tears his eyes open, praying to _somebody_ that he hadn’t had a one night stand. Instead of the face of a stranger, he’s greeted with clammy, tanned skin with an abundance of spotted freckles. Like a train, the memories of last night rushed through him. Going through his phone, looking at their Instant-Gram post, crawling into Crowley’s bed, singing.  
He had to stifle a moan. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he was one hell of a trainwreck. Gingerly, he unhooks a leg from Crowley’s hips. It’s then that he realises his mistake: this hospital bed was _tiny_. Barely large enough for two fully-grown men, in fact. However, he doesn’t absorb this information until there’s a distinct lack of _anything_ beneath him, and that the floor is very, very close. His body, stiff from sleep, throbs in pain as the ground reaches up to meet him, and a sharp cry staggers through his elbow. He murmurs a few choice words, before crawling to his feet.

ꟷ

Crowley wakes again to the sight of oblivion. It’s not the endless void of darkness that scares him, though. No, it’s the distinct lack of _warmth_ ; he’d been so, so warm before, and now it was incredibly cold. Crowley had always ran cold, draped in at least two layers at any time, and there was nothing else to really _think_ about. His joints felt stiff and solid, like a drawer that hadn’t been opened in centuries. He couldn’t remember why he was laying down. He couldn’t figure out where the delectable patterns he’d fallen asleep to _were_. What’s worse, his sleep-addled brain supplies, is that he couldn’t figure out why that infernal alarm clock wouldn’t stop beeping!  
  
He finds himself brimming with anger, or panic, or something like that. Whatever the emotion is when your blood runs cold and brain runs hot. Distantly, the alarm clock’s cries became faster, and he groans in response, trying to figure out where that fucking clock was. It sounded like it was coming from his right… He tries to lift his arm to smack it, when he realises two things:

  1. He still hadn’t _opened his eyes_
  2. He couldn’t lift his arm



These realisations didn’t really lead anywhere, though. It’s rather hard to do anything when your eyes are fused and arms are refusing to cooperate.  
He groans again. A gargled mess leaves his throat, and he hears a gasp from his left.  
Before he had a chance to ask about the clock, he felt soft hands envelop his own. “ _Crowley?_ ” A voice whispered. Or hummed. Crowley couldn’t concentrate long enough to actually decipher anything beyond the fucking alarm.

He begins to chatter about the alarm clock. Specifically, yells, “Will you turn that fucking thing off?” What he actually says, though, is closer to a general noise of _‘whwyuuuuutfkcfft.’_

“It’s okay, dear boy,” The voice responds, “You just go back to sleep. There’s a chap.”  
Sleep. Yes, sleep sounds rather nice right now. As he drifts off, he vaguely remembers that he’s still very cold.

Aziraphale’s body begins shaking after that first groan; the first real sound from Crowley in… weeks. Whether the shakes were from fear or excitement, he couldn’t tell, because a noise erupts from Crowley soon after. He feels like screaming, like crying, like dancing around the room. But Crowley sounded distressed, and Aziraphale was terrified of him having another seizure.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, mouth hidden between a cupped hand. His hands wrap around Crowley’s, and he silently prays.

Crowley answers with a breathy mumble, and Aziraphale finds himself overcome with relief. There’s a thousand things he wants to say, _‘Can you open your eyes?’ ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Is something wrong?’,_ but there’s nothing _to_ say. What on Earth do you tell your best friend who’s been comatose for weeks? Aziraphale’s mind comes up blank.

After a moment, Aziraphale remembers that Crowley’s _responsive_. He smiles softly, “It’s okay, dear boy,” he whispers, his voice full of love and care and anxiety. “You just… Go back to sleep.” It’s painful for him to say, and he can barely spit it out before his eyes fill with tears. His hands shake, and he feels a distant pounding inside his head. Crowley responds with a huff. “There’s a chap,” He murmurs, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s cheek.  
He’s overcome with a need to kiss Crowley’s cheek. Platonically. Because that’s what best friends do, right? It’s what Crowley would do, at least. But it’s clear that Crowley can hear Aziraphale, and the hesitant, resistant shame that bubbles to the surface barely restrains him from pressing his lips to his cheek. It barely restrains the tears threatening to overflow, and it doesn’t succeed in preventing the pounding dam inside his head from spilling into a fully-formed headache.  
Despite the pain in his forehead, the pressure behind his eyes, and his shaking hands, he keeps his forehead pressed to Crowley. He stays like this, eyes shut, for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've had the first scene in my head for literally AGES!! I've wanted to write this since before I had the full idea and plan for this fic, but i'm lowkey disappointed in how it came out:"( i couldn't make words work, so i'm really sorry if this chapter reads a bit awkwardly:( just lmk and i'll change anything!:))  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, kudos-ed, etc, it means so much to me, and it always inspires me to write more!  
> As always, feel free to give any constructive feedback, let me know your favourite (or least favourite!) part, something you want me to include, an idea you definitely don't want- I have a plan, but it's always crazy flexible.   
> Thanks for reading, have a nice weekend!!:)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema makes a Bad Decision, and Crowley falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for nightmares about Falling(tm), happens right after anathema's first scene. if you wanna skip it just go down to the next linebreak, it's got no real purpose other than symbolism lmfao <3

Crowley wakes to the swimming view of an angel. One moment, he’d been swimming in nothingness, the next an angel was peering at him through a golden halo.  
He can’t see its features, but it’s pressed so closely to him that he could smell what he knew Heaven would smell of; vanilla and cupcakes and freshly baked bread. His muscles relax, tension seeping from him like vapor, engulfed in what could only be described as _home_. When he tries to blink through his aching eyes, to rid himself of the blurry scene ahead of him, he can’t. The angel was bathed in light, a golden halo surrounding its entire face so perfectly that he couldn’t made out any features. He finds he doesn’t mind that he can’t see everything, because if an angel was here then everything would be alright, and that he _had_ to be in Heaven.  
The angel was standing so, so close. Vaguely, Crowley realises he’s laying down, and after a beat he tries to push himself up.

“Don’t strain yourself, my dear.” The angel murmurs, its voice like a thousand harmonies. It lays a warm, comforting hand on his chest, and Crowley finds himself unable to resist burrowing into the clouds his body was telling him were there.

He tries to speak, but his voice comes out faint and scratchy. He manages a groan, and the angel brings a plastic cup from somewhere to his lips. “Drink, Crowley.”  
He does.  
At first, he lets cold water dribble upon his chapped lips, and it feels so, so good. The cup wiggles its way into his mouth, and the first drops of water were true, unadulterated bliss. He lets the water slide down his throat, and feels his eyes slip closed. The cup grows empty far too soon, and although Crowley feels as though he’s never been thirstier, he finds his throat is a little less scratchy.

He coughs again, and the cup leaves his lips. “Am I dead?” He whispers.

The angel disappears from his view for a second, and a pang of fear runs through him. What if he’s in the wrong place? But then he realises the warm pressure of its hand is still resting on his chest, and before long, the angel reappears too.

A laugh like windchimes whistles through the area. “No, Crowley. You had a close call, though. Do you know where you are?” Crowley shakes his head, because of course angels would lie about the afterlife. He knows better.

“I’m in Heaven, angel.” He sighs blissfully, “Was I good?”

“You’re in hospital.” The angel deadpans. A second later, “Oh, I forgot. You’re on painkillers.” He can’t seem to care about being in ‘hospital;’ maybe that’s just what angels call Heaven nowadays. Crowley smiles knowingly, and blinks lazily at the angel. “Okay. Can you tell Aziraphale?”

It chuckles, “Tell Aziraphale what?”

“Tell Aziraphale…” He grimaces, losing his train of thought.

After a long moment, the angel moves its hand to his hair. He leans into its touch. After a moment's thought, Crowley feels the icy fingers of fear wrap around his chest, before realisation joins it. He has to tell the angel.

“Tell Aziraphale that everything’s turning into fish stew!” He slurs loudly. His voice softens, “The poor dolphins…” Those poor dolphins indeed, what’ll they do?

It runs its hand through his hair, and he moans in response.

“Of course, Crowley.” The angel begins to speak again, but Crowley already feels himself falling back asleep.

When Crowley wakes again, it’s to the muffled sound of quiet speech. His head feels as though it’s been stuffed with cotton balls, and when he swallows, his throat protests. He doesn’t open his eyes; When he thinks of it, the cold fingers of dread wrap around his heart. The slow realisation that he’s _laying down_ begins to dawn, and he can’t recall why the fuck he’s actually on a bed. He feels his heart begin to pound, his chest heave, and a deep pain beneath his eyelids.

He hears an alarm clock, or heart monitor, or whatever the fuck he’s connected to begin to chirp loudly, and he shies from the onslaught of noise and touch and smell and-,  
He drifts away again.

ꟷ

Anathema’s heels tap against the concrete floor as she’s lead through a maze of corridors. “I wasn’t briefed,” her voice echoes through the maze, “Who am I seeing?”

“Hastur Empyrean, madam president. Ligur Empyrean’s partner. He has information on Gabriel Erebus, but he’ll only speak to you,” The suited man in front of her says. His voice is like gravel, and it grates against her ears.  
Hesitantly, Anathema nods. As they wind through the corridors, doors lining each side, Anathema grows more and more uneasy; why would Hastur want to talk to _her_? What information does he have?  
This situation, as far as she was concerned, was highly unusual. Criminals didn’t just _choose_ to speak directly to the president. There had to be an angle, some kind of direction this group was following. After an excessively long time, the unnamed man stopped outside a room titled _4004_. He grimaced at her, before leaning into her.  
He smelt of smoke.  
Through a haze of tuna-smelling breath and axe spray, he reveals that Hastur’s a “highly dangerous individual,” and that he’ll be “standing right by the door.”

She nods, and he lets her in.

ꟷ

The thing about falling is that it’s so much easier a second time. The rush of air beneath you, the tears being pulled from your eyes and defying gravity, floating towards the sun like Icarus. The sharp, throbbing, endless pain of disintegrating wings. The emptiness that grows and grows as you fall and fall.

Crowley’s had this dream before. He knows it’s a dream because Aziraphale had pushed him from the highest cloud. He knows it’s a dream because they had been wearing white robes. He knows it’s a dream because Crowley still had breasts.

But knowing something’s a dream is so very different to having control over your body.

And so Crowley falls. He falls and he falls and he falls. And the robe around him turns to smoke, his hair to shreds, and his wings to ash.  
The impact of ground comes too soon and too late. The breath leaves his body, he curls into a ball, torn wings wrapping around his body. He closes his eyes.  
Aziraphale pushes him from the highest cloud again.

ꟷ

“Miss Anathema Device, I’ve been hoping you’ll grace me with your presence.” Hastur’s voice is like a rusty spoon, like nightmares, and hate, all mixed together.

Anathema’s skin crawls as she takes a seat. Her legs dig into the cold metallic chair, identical to Hastur’s. The only thing separating them in this metal box is a metal table. “So,” She places one leg on top of another, and leans against the hard chair backing, “Why’d you want to see me?”

“Well, miss Anathema, I have information that may or may not interest you.” He stares directly into Anathema’s eyes. She waits a long minute. Hastur does not blink.

“Well?” She shakes her head minutely.

“You need to do something for me, first.” He leans forward.

“What do you want?”

“Full immunity. And, I want to be released from prison.”

She sighs, shaking her head. Uncrossing her legs, she glares into Hastur’s unblinking, unwavering eyes. “You know I can’t let that happen. I was told-,” _she was not_ , “-that you’re a war criminal.”

“Then I won’t share what I know.” He shrugs, examining his nails.

“Who’s it about?”

“Gabriel Erebus.”

“His location?”

“No. Even better.”

Anathema sucks in a breath. Immediately, she realises what he knows; why Gabriel wanted to kill Aziraphale. “You _know_ I can’t grant you immunity. I could…” She stops, _what the fuck could she do_? “Talk with your guard, see if I could get your sentence reduced. No promises.”

He seems to mull it over, a smirk pulled tight across his face. Anathema’s hands shake. “If I tell you… And that’s a huge if. You will also make sure I get Christmases on the outside.”

“Why?”

He grinned. “Do you really want to know?”

Anathema groans, “Fine. What do you know?”

With a smile like a hyena, Hastur leans over the table. Anathema follows.  
His scratchy voice fills her head, and Anathema shakes.

ꟷ

Crowley had been falling for ages. Simply hours. Maybe days. But this time was different. This time, as he tripped, Aziraphale’s hand reached out. A cry of relief left Crowley’s lung as Aziraphale wrapped a strong hand around his arm and _pulled_. It tugged and tugged until something popped and Crowley was back upon a cloud, staring into the face of a very clear Aziraphale.  
His face was backlit by an afternoon glow, orange lighting the white puffs of hair. Crowley smiled; in grief, in relief, in pain, he did not know.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured, so clear and bright that it took Crowley a moment to realise that _this was not a dream_.

“Aziraphale?” His voice grates in his ears, and is weak from disuse, but Aziraphale’s face brightens impossibly, and his smile is like a beacon in the night.

“Crowley… Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

And for the hundredth time that day, Crowley felt himself falling.  
But not from a cloud. For an angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for falling off the grid, i'm literally four weeks away from graduation and six weeks away from my final exams, so this month has been Hectic(tm)  
> Thank you guys so much for reading, and thank you to those who commented!! I really, really appreciate your comments; they're so motivating!!  
> Thanks to everyone who interacts with this fic, whether from kudos, or bookmarks, or comments or even subscriptions!! I really appreciate every single thing, so thank you so much!  
> As always, feel free to comment or give concrit!  
> Have an awesome week!


	9. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been several months since Crowley woke.

It had been… Well, months since Crowley had woken from his coma. After several heart wrenching months, Crowley had begun extensive physiotherapy, and had learnt to use a bulkier alternative to his previous walking stick. He was told that he’d need to use the new, sleek and black walker for a long while.  
Crowley didn’t seem to mind. After all, Aziraphale was right beside him through the whole process; making him tea after nightmares, rubbing his sore joints, arguing with Anathema and Newton.  
Aziraphale smiled into his plate of pancakes, Crowley’s eagle eyes watching him from across the table.

“They all good?” Crowley asked, face emotionless. A gentle twitch of an eyebrow defied Crowley’s attempt at an uncaring attitude.

Aziraphale, for the hundredth time that morning, smiled. “Crowley, my dear boy, they’re _perfect_.”

He huffed, chest puffing out proudly. “Well, of course they are, angel. I made them myself.” He raised his chin, and Aziraphale had to hold back a laugh.

“Angel?” 

“I never told you, did I?” Crowley’s body shrunk into itself. The soft morning light glowed through the window, lighting his face golden.  
Aziraphale shook his head.

“Well,” he took a sip of something resembling coffee, “When I was in the hospital… Don’t laugh, but when I first woke up, I thought you were an angel.”

Aziraphale, true to Crowley’s warning, didn’t laugh. Instead, a small sigh floated from deep within his body. “Oh Crowley,” he started, voice soft.

Crowley’s golden eyes glared him into silence. Before long, Crowley stood shakily from the table, a hand gripping his walking stick firmly. Aziraphale watched with loving eyes as his newly-proclaimed boyfriend curled around the round table, before snaking around Aziraphale’s body. His head lay softly upon his shoulder, arms gripping his torso like a lifeline. Aziraphale rested his head upon Crowley’s, smiling softly. Crowley was getting better.   
After all, everything would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry about yeeting for like two months. a few days after I posted the last chapter, something happened in my private life that I've still not gotten over. I had so many plans for this fic, but unfortunately, I lost all inspiration for this and I just couldn't write:( I really wanted to write a whole massive recovery process for Crowley and Aziraphale, and show their relationship progressing into what I see as a romantic relationship. I also do know that I didn't address the whole ~*who shot Crowley*~ thing but I promise that i'm gonna write a oneshot about that in the future if people want it!:)  
> I really wanted to wrap this up though, so I wrote this really short and sweet epilogue. I have some oneshots planned for this fic, though, so keep subscribed for updates in the coming months! I'll probably begin writing the updates in three weeks or so, as soon as my exams finish!:)
> 
> Huge thanks to SilverStarsInTheSky for your lovely comments! You kept me super inspired and motivated to write this, and I'm not sure if you're still reading this, but thank you so much.  
> thank you all so, so much for reading. I appreciate every single comment, kudo, bookmark, and subscription to this! Have a lovely day!:)


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